


Cat Scratches

by sweetxtangerine



Series: Tattoo AU [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Punk Scully, Tattooed Scully, Tattoos, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetxtangerine/pseuds/sweetxtangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully's body is a canvas. It's been a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat Scratches

**Author's Note:**

> Meant as a little follow up and reflection to "I Believe".

Scully is twenty when she gets her first tattoo. It's small, linework only, a delicate little starburst on her inner hip. 

She goes to the parlour with her sister and it's the second time she's been in. The first was the weekend before, to pay her deposit and hand the artist her design.

When they go into the back her heart races wildly and she's sure everyone can the hear rapid drumbeat of her pulse. She's embarrassed to be so nervous, to be trembling so, but she lets it go. _They must get worse than me_ , she thinks.

The artist tells her what he's going to do, brings over the transfer paper, and has her push down her skirt a little as she stands in front of the mirror. She needs to be standing up so the image will not be distorted. He cleans the area, presses the transfer to her skin, pulls it away and steps back. The placement is perfect. She nods in approval.

Her sister smiles as she lays on the table. "Just cat scratches," Melissa says, soothing, and it calms her a little. She breathes deeply and relaxes.

When the artist starts the machine she jumps, and then laughs sheepishly. Another deep breath, and she holds Melissa's hand as the artist turns to her, ink on the needle, and presses in.

The buzzing is loud, almost overwhelmingly loud, and the pain almost seems to enhance the volume. _This is one angry cat,_ Scully thinks, squeezing her sister's hand. She had never realised how sensitive the area is, just inside her hip. She should have, she thinks--it's so ticklish, so tender to prod--but it never crossed properly her mind. Bit late now.

The six minutes it takes to finish are the longest six minutes of Scully's life. The white, hot pain is still close to her as she stumbles to her feet, still shaking, legs like jelly. She thanks the artist and pays, tips him, and leaves with Melissa linked on her arm.

That night, she peels back the bandage and stares at herself in the mirror, naked, the yellow light of the bathroom bulbs washing out her skin and making the black of the ink stand more prominent in contrast. She doesn't feel different, just a little sore. She winces as she cleans the tattoo, gently rubbing it with soapy water, patting it dry, applying ointment, and she wonders if she'll ever get another. She's a little sad that she wasn't as taken with the sensation as many of her friends had been. The pain, she realises, was enough of a deterrent. She doesn't, however, regret it.

  

* * *

 

Scully is twenty-one when she gets her second tattoo. It's larger, beautiful and colourful, an ouroboros with stunning red eyes. 

She's on a weeklong bender after a bad break up and when she sobers up she decides she wants to feel a little pain that's not found at the bottom of a bottle. She walks home from college and sees the tattoo parlour on her way back. A permanent fixture that she never pays attention to. She steps in and sees the image hung on the wall. It's perfect, she realises, a clear expression of enduring self-recreation. She points it out to the artist working there and asks about rates. She pops out to an ATM before heading back in.

She opts for the arm, and the artist obliges. He prepares the transfer, cleans her skin, presses and checks with her on placement. She nods as she had before.

Again, she jumps when the needle starts and laughs at herself. The artist smiles at her kindly. _Cat scratches_ , she thinks.

The outline is painful and brings her back to that white hot pain of the starburst, but six minutes elapse, and then ten, and she's almost acclimated to it. There's a short pause. She watches, lazily, as he switches to the shading needles.

It's easier now with the shading needles, more spaced, the weight less heavy. It's easier, still, she realises, if she watches the needles so the pain is more centralised, rather than belonging to a white fire of the entire area.

After half an hour she's high on adrenaline, on the pain, and absolutely transfixed at the needle vibrating. She's not wincing anymore, not tense, and when the artist finishes up she realises she's disappointed that it's over. She stands up and flexes her arm, tests the pain and appreciates the deep ache. Droplets of blood rise to the surface, and she relaxes into the sting as the artist cleans it, applies ointment, and bandages it. She pays with cash, tips well, and is out the door.

When she's home again, she peels back the bandage and stares at herself in the mirror, stares at the ouroboros and falls in love with the scarlet pigment. It aches a deep ache and she knows she won't be sleeping on that side for a while. She realises she's smiling as she stretches her arm and tests the pain, and knows that the first one being so small was a bad idea. She needed time to get used to the burn, to fall in love with the sting. She's addicted to this now and almost laughs, glad that it's not a person she's addicted to anymore. She's healing.

 

* * *

  

Scully is twenty-nine when she gets her twenty-fourth tattoo. Her vice, her secret addiction, a bright and brilliant map of her life hidden from view.

She's been partnered with Fox Mulder for over a year now and he is her constant. It's complicated and unclear to everyone around them and sometimes it scares her, but they are drawn to each other in a way that she cannot explain. She need not explain. She knew, and he knew, and that was all they needed.

She steps into the parlour casually and the artist recognises her and smiles. He had done almost all her ink and knew her well by now. 

It's pavlovian now, the pump of her heart and the spike of her adrenaline. She realised it seven years and twenty tattoos ago, and every time that door swung behind her it was the same.

She heads to the back with the artist, unbuttons her blouse and takes off her camisole and bra. "I'm surprised there's still room," he laughs, and she laughs too, insisting that there's still a little room to squeeze a few more in.

"Right here," she points to a little blank space close to her heart, "I think this should fit nicely."

He cleans her skin and transfers the image. She confirms and leans back on the table. She still jumps when the machine starts.

Just linework again, like her very first. She remembers. Remembers Melissa holding her hand and how she shook when she stepped from the table.

She gets high on the pain, on the sound of the needle, on the flow of the ink.

"So, are you into all that alien conspiracy stuff then?" He asks, curious.

"No," she assures him, "No, it has to do with a friend of mine actually, he's the one who's into all of that."

He nods, knowingly.

Six minutes elapse and then the burn smoulders. Before she knows it, he's cleaning it off, gently rubbing in the ointment and bandaging it. She dresses, leaving off the bra and opting for just the camisole and the blouse, thanks him, pays, and leaves.

She gets a call from Mulder and he needs her on a case, so she's off and she's fire and she wonders what he would say, what he would do, if he learned that she had a part of him tattooed by her heart. She wonders if he'll ever know.

They agree to call it a night and she knows she needs to take off the bandage and let it breathe, so after Mulder leaves she strips in their office and takes the bandage off. She has no mirror in front of her but looks down at it and admires the clean lines of the little UFO, the clarity of the lettering. She wipes it clean and applies ointment. It'll be enough till she gets home. She wonders if it would make Mulder uncomfortable if he knew about her tattoo, but decides, ultimately, that he'll probably never see it. Besides, he'd probably be flattered by this sort of thing. She cherishes it.

 

* * *

 

Mulder is thirty-four years old when he gets his first tattoo. He'd joked to Scully at least once or twice before about getting the Knicks logo on his ass, but until he'd seen the artwork that covered her body, he had never seriously considered getting any ink.

The idea strikes him, though, and as he decides wether or not to get it done, he reasons that it's only fair. She has a part of him with her always. He wants a part of her. 

It's not often she sees him anxious and she decides it's actually pretty endearing as they step through the door of the tattoo parlour. On cue, her heart beats fast and her adrenaline spikes but it's nothing more than respondent conditioning. He told her he had decided on a design at the start of the week and booked the appointment, and sure enough, her artist greets them cheerily and leads them to the back room, design in hand.

She can see Mulder's eyes dart back and forth, making himself as aware as possible of every detail of what was going on. He doesn't ask any questions, but he listens. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. Scully realises, as his pectoral is being cleaned and the design is pressed on, that she had never seen anyone else get a tattoo before. Only herself. Somehow, it felt right for it to be Mulder.

Now he's leaned back on the table and her heart is steady, while his is racing. She leans over him, on the side opposite from the artist, making not sure to crowd him. She clutches his shoulder and he nods in affirmation. The machine buzzes and Mulder jumps a little, and Scully does all she can to stop from laughing. It was nice that it wasn't her for once.

"It's just cat scratches, Mulder," she says, and he looks into her eyes and nods.

As the needles go in, Mulder winces immediately, and there's a small tremor that rolls through his body--his way of trying not to flinch. He clutches her elbow and squeezes tight, a little tighter still when the needle gets closer to the underarm. Six minutes elapse and half the outline is done. Scully's arm has slipped down and now he's holding her hand, and the tight grip starts to loosen a little.

"Do you like to watch it on you?" he asks. 

She nods. "I do. It helps me manage the pain better."

He looks down at the needle for a moment, but then pulls a face and looks back to her, and she laughs.

At fifteen minutes in, the outline is done and it's time now for the shading. After an hour and a half, it's done, and he's looking to the side, serene. He blinks lazily and it takes him a moment to realise it's done.

She watches him getting cleaned up and bandaged. Watches him put his shirt back on and button it up with deft fingers. 

"Not so bad," Mulder says, and his voice is low and heavy, "Really grows on you, huh Scully?" 

She smiles and knows that he's felt what she feels each time she gets a new tattoo. He pays and Scully reminds him to tip and they leave.

They eat dinner together at a little takeaway not too far from the parlour. Then they go to his place, where Scully has promised to show him proper aftercare.

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he unbuttons his shirt. He winces a little as he pulls it off, the muscles aching as he shifts, and drops the shirt to the floor. She peels off the bandage and gently rubs soapy water. He winces and hisses, and she gives him a look, and he stops fussing and grins.

"You know, Mulder," she says, gently rubbing ointment into his pain-hot skin, "It's an interesting choice, a white whale."

"I agree, Scully," he says cheerily, "See, I wanted a memento of someone of great significance to me, not necessarily literal." It's an echo of their previous conversation.

"Oh, so you've not been hunting any great white whales as of late?" 

"No," Mulder agrees, "But if I remember correctly, Moby Dick is your favourite book?"

She smiles. "That it is."

"Well I wanted to choose something that represented you, and I think that's it."

"Are you saying I'm a whale, Mulder?"

He rolls his eyes. "There's a lot of symbolism with Moby Dick, Scully. He represents association with nature and with God, opposition and mystery."

"And he takes down the entire ship at the end."

"Not the point, Scully."

"What is the point, Mulder?"

"Sometimes you're a mystery to me, Scully, and I know we don't always see eye to eye," He ignores Scully's snort, "Your belief in God and my believe in extreme possibility have us at odds sometimes. But there's something that binds us, I think, that gives us the opportunity to trust one another in a way that we can trust no one else. And whether it's fate that binds us, or just circumstance, there's something here between us."

Scully smiles. "I know what you mean. I feel it too."

He strokes her cheek and smiles, and then his stomach flips as she lifts herself to her toes and leans towards him.

"Hold on, Scully," he holds her back with one hand and she frowns at him. "Ahab doesn't get the whale in the end, does he?"

Scully snorts. "You can use metaphors all you like, but I'm not a great white whale and you, despite your obsessive, fanatic tendencies, are not Captain Ahab."

"Good," Mulder smiles, "Though I always wanted a peg leg." And he lifts his hand to her chin, strokes his fingers through her hair. She closes the gap between them and they kiss, the stars align, and the ache of his skin is numbed to silence. He loves this.

**Author's Note:**

> I am disgustingly in love with the idea of Scully with tattoos, so it just had to be done.


End file.
